


Nighttime Makes Us Bolder

by nsalmon



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Drunk John, Drunkenness, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-24
Updated: 2014-02-24
Packaged: 2018-01-13 14:55:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1230622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nsalmon/pseuds/nsalmon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Riding on the aftermath of Mary's betrayal, a drunken John goes to Sherlock for comfort. They're both drunk. Cuddling ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nighttime Makes Us Bolder

It had started with one pub in a string of pubs and ended with John having successfully forgotten about Mary for at least ten minutes.

_“Is everyone I’ve ever known a sociopath?”_ John was too tired to think about whether, in avoiding Mary and being with Sherlock, he was trading one evil for another. Tonight, and just tonight (John assured himself this, as he had assured himself every night since he’d found out who Mary really was), he would allow Sherlock to comfort him.

And tonight, Sherlock would allow himself to comfort John. His John. Never Mary’s, although John had been confused for awhile. It had always been Sherlock.

They were both drunk when they got back to the flat— _Sherlock’s_ flat—and John was reminded of something, some time ago, when he’d been drunk before and he’d stumbled upstairs with Sherlock’s head on his shoulder.

The situation tonight was much the same, with Sherlock’s long, lanky frame draped over John’s smaller, more compact one. Upstairs, John somehow made it to Sherlock’s room without incident, pushing open the door and eventually arriving at the bed. John shrugged Sherlock off his shoulders, and, sensing he was about to be let go of, Sherlock tightened his fingers on the doctor’s collar. John exhaled softly, reached up and slowly peeled the fingers off. Sherlock flopped—literally, for there was no possible way to gracefully describe this most ungraceful act of his—onto the bed, looking defeated somehow. Sherlock knew that now, John was going to leave him. In the morning, though, John would be back. He’d gently ease Sherlock into consciousness with tea (Why tea? Sherlock wondered. There was no conclusive proof in any of the experiments he’d conducted that had led to tea’s being able to ease physical, emotional or even psychological pain), and then he’d try to get Sherlock to eat, and then John would leave again. He would always come back, but Sherlock would be stuck where John had left him. Suspended, immobilized somehow. The flat wasn’t alive without John. Even when John did the same things over and over every day, like eat and text on his mobile and try not to think about Mary and mutter on about Sherlock’s experiments.  

Usually, Sherlock found routine utterly boring, but routine with John Watson was…something else. It was a consolation prize, the second-best thing Sherlock could get to having John all to himself. At least he could share in John’s daily activities, however mundane they were. Sherlock sighed, an utterly disconsolate sound that echoed through his room with a throaty resonance that belied Sherlock’s current weak state. In his current inebriated state, Sherlock realized how pitiful he sounded, like lovelorn puppy that constantly needed attention. Sherlock immediately turned away from John, who was still standing above the bed with a concerned look on his face. He had to control himself in front of John (blunt as he could be at times). Sherlock was just on this side of John’s good graces, a step away from joining Mary on his hit list. He didn’t want to do anything to upset the balance he and John had lately found.

John looked down at Sherlock, who gazed up at him from the bed with something doleful in his eyes—the closest thing to melancholy John had ever seen Sherlock express (and that includes the fourth time Mrs. Hudson had taken his skull—the apartment was filled with the discordant sounds of Sherlock composing on the violin for a full week afterward). John was a little confused; surely Sherlock wasn’t upset that John was still here? Surely he understood that in his present state, it was John’s duty as a doctor (a friend, even) to look after him? Granted, John was more or less perpetually pissed at Sherlock for something or another (the part about his expressing, loudly and in various ways, his apparent sociopathy ground especially on his nerves), but he still loved the sod. Hell, he’d been the best man at John’s wedding—and that had meant something to John, to ask Sherlock, even if Sherlock hadn’t realized it. He’d felt a little bad, watching Sherlock realize he was getting married, that he wasn’t coming back to live at the flat—but it had been three years. He’d had to have known that John’s life would continue, however stutteringly. John often found himself wishing that things would return to normalcy, but he didn’t even know what normal was anymore. Was it Mary? Sherlock’s flat? Chasing around Lestrade and Anderson, or Sherlock’s little suicide conspiracy fan club? Was it picking Harry up from the pub when she was too drunk to stand? John just didn’t know anymore.

Sherlock let out a little moan, jerking John back to the present, and the wrinkle between John’s eyebrows deepened. John had never known Sherlock to enjoy getting drunk. What was wrong with Sherlock? Hell, what was wrong with _him_ , for worrying so much about Sherlock? A lot had happened in three years; John had become an expert at forgetting about Sherlock, until he had shown up with a penciled on mustache and a serious penchant for getting on John’s bloody fucking nerves. Every once in awhile, John felt his desire for Sherlock unfurling inside of him, glowing like hot coals in his belly, a remnant of the time before Sherlock fell out, and then back into, John’s life. But he quelled it quickly.

Still, John wished just once he could hold Sherlock in his arms until the world fell together around them. But he couldn’t. _No,_ John thought to himself, _John Hamish Watson, you are not going down this road tonight._ He resigned himself to the task of bending over and trying to get his shoes off. John sat down heavily on the edge of Sherlock’s bed, at a careful distance, and turned, before he left to bed down on the sofa, to look at the figure huddled on the bed. Sherlock was still as stone.

God, how his neck hurt. Maybe, if Sherlock was sleeping, he wouldn’t mind if John slept on the opposite side of the bed; God knew it was big enough for both of them, and John didn’t move in his sleep.

“Sherlock!” He hissed. “Sherlock?” No response. Satisfied Sherlock was unconscious, John shucked his jeans and dress shirt (thank God he’d had the foresight to wear a clean undershirt), padded over to the bed, pulled back the covers, and slid into bed. Sherlock was so far on the other side of the bed that John couldn’t even feel the warmth of his body heat. He shivered involuntarily, and Sherlock was instantly, albeit a little impossibly, alert.

“John?” Sherlock whispered. “S’John cold?”

Shit. What to do? Accede, and risk sounding like a whiny five-year-old? Or soldier it out? John bit back a sigh. He was tired of being a goddamned soldier. So he said, softly, into the empty space between them, “Yeah.”

Sherlock scooted into the middle of the bed and lazily extended a hand to feel for John. His long fingers caught, awkwardly, on John’s face, and John sputtered a little as Sherlock whispered “C’mere.” John obediently wormed his way over to Sherlock ( _I’m drunk, he’s drunk, we’re drunk, it’s all fine)_ and settled onto his back, pressing his side up against the detective’s backside. Sherlock turned over, onto his other side, so that he was facing John, and then draped his leg over John’s thighs, threw his arm over John’s chest, and nestled his head into the hollow space between John’s shoulder and his neck. John’s left hand absentmindedly stroked Sherlock’s hair and his right came to rest on the small of Sherlock’s back. John could feel, through the thin material of Sherlock’s shirt, the overlying musculature of Sherlock’s strong lower back, and he resisted the urge to tug at the waistband of Sherlock’s pants and explore further. Sherlock let out a breath that hummed in the air and nestled in closer to John, his fingers clutching at the material of John’s sleep shirt. John petted Sherlock’s head as the two of them slowly fell into a deep, comfortable sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> This was written purely to satisfy my need for some serious fluff. And angst. And Sherlock being cute and sleepy. Hope you enjoy, and comment, if you're so inclined.


End file.
